“Getting information out of Trader,” Drake said, “is like getting blood out of a turnip.”
Mason nodded. “He left the hospital before Packard was discharged. Packard was there about thirty-five minutes. He arrived there about ten minutes past twelve. That means Trader must have delivered the merchandise some time around quarter to one or one o’clock.”
“That would have been before Rita Swaine arrived?” Drake asked.
Mason nodded and said, “The more I think of it, Paul, the more I think I’m interested in knowing just what that merchandise consisted of. Trader didn’t want to give us any information when we talked with him, but now there’s been a murder, the situation will be different.”
Drake pulled out his notebook, braced himself against the swaying of the automobile, tried in vain to write legibly. He looked at the scrawled letters, grinned and said, “When I see something I can’t read, I’ll know that means ‘look up merchandise in the garage.’ ”
Mason settled back against the cushions. “What did you find out about Prescott?” he asked the detective.
“Plenty,” Drake said. “I can tell you all about him from the time he left kindergarten until he was found dead. I could even give you some of his grades in school.”
“How was he, bright?”
“Not particularly during grammar school. He took a spurt in high school, and made a pretty good record in college. He was a chemical engineer. Then he drifted into insurance adjusting.”
“How about his personality?”